Anxiously unkempt
Iwas once told I have horrible taste in movies. This was announced by a 17-year-old classmate — a guy I happened to have a raging crush on, actually, though I tried hard to ignore his existence. N. was smart and funny, cynical, a know-it-all — a hipster before hipsters existed.
I thought he was infuriating and absolutely adorable, and he made me crazy.
His question — in the middle of newspaper class, as I recall — was actually about which directors I “followed.” Considering the only director I could even think of was Steven Spielberg, I definitely didn’t have an answer to that question.
“So what movies do you like, then?” he pressed. “Top three?”
I remember repeating this back, buying myself some time. This was a trick question. Even if I did manage to name some artsy, obscure films, I was going to be made fun of — that was totally N.’s MO.
So I just decided to be truthful. I didn’t even have three. At 17, my favorite movie was “Sleepless in Seattle.” Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan, one adorable kid who just wants his father to be happy . . . it was romantic, poignant, funny. That was good enough for me.
As expected, N. was dumbfounded by this response. Like: jaw open, eyes wide, total snarky shock. A rom-com? Seriously? I remember him announcing my “complete lack of taste” — that’s a direct quote — to the classroom. I was too stunned to respond.
Back in the early ’00s, texting was not a thing. Facebook did not exist. Snapchat absolutely did not exist. Email was not embraced by teens, either — but AOL Instant Messenger sure was. And a few days after that incident, I was at our boxy home computer one evening when a flashing message request from N. showed up. Apparently he’d asked around for my screenname.
“I’m sorry,” N. wrote, as I recall. No preamble. Out with it. “I’ve felt so bad. Terrible. I haven’t been able to sleep.”
This was half my lifetime ago, but I remember the electric shock that was the idea of N. not being able to sleep because . . . he was thinking about me. In announcing his perception of my “lack of taste” to a roomful of gossipy teenagers, it had quickly cycled around that I was “devastated” by his comments.
For the record: I was not devastated. Embarrassed, sure, but not “devastated.”
Ever the pacifist, though, I’m sure I told him it was fine. And we marched on. Nothing happened. We wound up at the same college and, as I remember, ran into each other once or twice — but the apex of our relationship that never was involved N. insulting me over movies.
I thought of all this Friday night while wrestling with my complex reaction to “Five Feet Apart,” a new movie starring Haley Lu Richardson and Cole Sprouse (directed by Justin Baldoni, N., for the record).
Critical and audience reaction has been mixed, but here’s the thing: I loved it. Absolutely loved it. Haven’t stopped thinking about it.
My husband and I took advantage of a rare date night to see the romance featuring two teens living with cystic fibrosis — a genetic disease that requires them to remain at least six feet (later: five feet, as Stella decides) apart to avoid the risk of life-threatening cross infection.
It’s a story of unselfish love. Of restraint. Of passion and devotion without an outlet for those feelings. For stoicism in the face of an uncertain future, and the absolute unfairness of a bitterly unfair diagnosis.
Spence and I quickly became aware that we’d tumbled into heartthrob territory when the audience — comprised mainly of couples or teen girls with chaperones — audibly squealed during a sizzling scene featuring Sprouse as Will, the closed-off teen who finds his walls broken down by Stella. But once I got over the surprise of a noisy audience, it added to the appeal. That was a genuine reaction. Humanity and all that.
My preschooler is now closer to 17 than I am (!), but it doesn’t take much to remember the infinite way in which life stretched out during that starry moment in time. To think of unrequited love, first love, platonic love, lasting love — and everything in between.
Oh, the importance of simple connection. To me, the moral of “Five Feet Apart” was plain: reach out and touch someone if you can. Offer a hand, a hug, a heart. Don’t wait.
Whether or not it earns any recognition come Hollywood award season, “Five Feet Apart” made me feel something. I haven’t stopped feeling it. It was complex, honest, painful, beautiful.
Definitely good enough for me.